


singing with all my skin and bone

by sleepymoon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Non Consensual Kissing, Pining, Post Season 8, Romance, Silent Treatment, human!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:22:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepymoon/pseuds/sleepymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been living in the bunker with the Winchesters for two months now, and he still feels his skin prickling with the absence of his lost grace, a sensation almost physical of something missing, a scratch that he cannot hope to soothe in any way. But no, these days he mostly has to deal with his heart beating hard and pounding against his ribcage, <em>hurting,</em> – he's been human before; he thought he knew quite well everything it entailed, but he's sure it never felt quite like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	singing with all my skin and bone

He's been living in the bunker with the Winchesters for two months now, and he still feels his skin prickling with the absence of his lost grace, a sensation almost physical of something missing, a scratch that he cannot hope to soothe in any way.

But no, these days he mostly has to deal with his heart beating hard and pounding against his ribcage, _hurting,_ – he's been human before; he thought he knew quite well everything it entailed, but he's sure it never felt quite like this.

He thinks about kissing his best friend, now.

He lays in bed in his impersonal room, staring up at the ceiling, soaked up in his own sweat, his erection pressed tight and aching against the confines of his borrowed sweatpants, because of _Dean_. He wakes up in the middle of the night with his name on his lips, panting and confused, and so, so scared.

He never remembers the dreams, but they always leave him too warm, too bothered – he's desperately human, and they crawl underneath his skin, these feelings he's unaccustomed to. He's certain it wasn't this, what Metatron had in mind when he cast him out of heaven, ripping off his wings, his powers – telling him to find a wife, have children. He still doesn't want to do any of that, but _oh,_ his fall opened a deep scar in his chest and now all these complex emotions are pouring out, and Castiel is lost and weak against their assault.

He thinks, sometimes, about how easily he could press a kiss to Dean's temple when he finds him asleep on the couch, his fingers lax around the almost empty bottle of beer. Instead, he only slips the bottle from his hand to make sure that he won't spill it on himself, and quietly murmurs his goodnight to Dean's quivering eyelids. What he would like to do, he muses, is to quietly slip his hands into his own, and gently rouse him, and maybe, _maybe,_ ask him to share his bed; or perhaps he would simply curl up next to him, resting his head on his broad shoulder – _cuddling,_ should be the correct term. He thinks he'd like to do that. To experience that kind of closeness. However, the only thing he ever allows himself to have is this: he touches the pads of his fingers to Dean's palm, curled half open still, while Dean sleeps on, unaware of his trespass, and Castiel quietly leaves the room.

He doesn't dare to finish the beer in his hand, to place his mouth where Dean's had been only mere minutes before.

He leaves the bottle next to the sink in the kitchen and pours himself a glass of milk instead – the cold is a small relief against his heated palm, his burning face and lips. He doesn't want to go to sleep alone. He pretends that his lips are warm because of the kisses Dean put there, fervent and true, closing his eyes to hold onto the fantasy. He always sleeps alone in the end, because he doesn't have any choice. He dreams. He wakes up. It's a troublesome routine.

Sometimes he thinks he could lean that bit further instead of stepping back whenever he sees him frown, thinking he's gotten too close for it to be entirely comfortable (personal space, yes; Dean still has trouble with his staring); he used to marvel at humanity, back in those days – they feel so foreign, now, as he looks over at Dean and finds himself wondering what his freckles might taste like.

*****

 

His fingers twitch restlessly around the fork he's holding as he cuts his way through his generous portion of pancakes. He's toning out the others' conversation, too focused, once again, on his treacherous thoughts. He could, yes, he could do that, if only, _if only–_

'Yeah, Sam, but we all know it will never happen.'

He startles, jolting on the chair, and drops the fork with a clatter. A heavy silence falls abruptly, two pairs of eyes turning on him, as he pointedly stares down at his hands as if trying hard to will the tremors away. He knows, he sternly reminds himself, he _knows_ what it is and what will never be. He may be ignorant of many human traits, but he's not that naive.

'Cas? You okay?' comes Dean's voice, tinged with concern. Castiel swallows, nods with a tight jerk.

This love was not meant for him. He was not created to _feel_ this. He used to be a warrior, he used to lead soldiers into battle, he used to be _fierce._ He doesn't care for this weakness. He doesn't want to look in those familiar green eyes and lose his footing – it makes him feel ridiculous and vulnerable. A failure, a disgrace.

'Please excuse me.'

The chair scrapes on the concrete as he stands up to his feet and leaves the kitchen. He's not so naive to believe that these feelings will go away with time, either. They marked him for good. And yet, he's too much of an angel for it to ever be possible... not human enough, never human enough. He's forever stuck between what he's not anymore and what he'll never completely learn to be. The ground used to shake with power beneath his feet, his vessel used to strain to contain his true essence, his memory filled with thousands of infinite lifetimes – now he barely remembers what it used to feel like. And what is worse, he doesn't even care.

He used to call Heaven his home; now it's only the background of his worst nightmares _(Dean lying dead on the ground, Dean choking on his own blood, Dean pleading him for mercy, Dean begging him to stop, Dean dying in front of his eyes a thousand times over until all Castiel could feel was the cold numbness of his fingers around the blade)._

This love – this agony – is still better than not feeling anything at all. It threw him off his feet, yes, it knocked his world upside down, but it also forced him to learn to think with his own head. It gave him a purpose of his own choosing, and now he holds onto it with everything he has left. He doesn't want to be an angel anymore, he only wants to be _Dean's._ And he's not ashamed to admit that he wants Dean in every way it is possible to want another. He wants Dean to take him, hard and dirty, rutting into the mattress, until the whole bunker resounds with their coupling, until Sam shouts at them to be quiet because he needs to sleep.

He squeezes his eyes shut, swallows thickly around the lump lodged in his throat - a kind of want that makes him _burn._

_Dean Winchester is saved._

_Dean Winchester is loved._

Impossibly, he feels like rejoicing.

*****

 

He finds Dean standing at the sink, gulping down a glass of water, in the middle of the night.

He woke up with this man's name lodged heavy and purposeful on his tongue. He shifts in the doorway, alerting Dean of his presence.

The human jumps nonetheless, cursing softly under his breath. Castiel finds himself suddenly, inexplicably determined. Discontented. Craving. He will later blame his actions on his humanity, his weakness; he has no control on his feet, as they cross the room silently, no control on his arms as they press Dean flat against the fridge door, trapping him there, their chests colliding, his whole body tipping forward, seeking that telltale spark that always seems to come to life whenever Dean is around. And he has no control whatsoever on the widening of Dean's eyes, on the stuttering in his breath as he stands there motionless, defensive, the cords in his neck tensing with the need to withdraw, to pull away, if only there were enough room to do so. There isn't – Cas doesn't allow it.

'What are you doing?' Dean asks, his voice low, strained.

'I'm rejoicing,' the former angel answers.

When Castiel kisses him, the hunter tries to rebel, his body shifting slightly to the side, a noise of revulsion or distress escaping his partially touched mouth. Cas' kiss landed a bit off center, his lips only touching Dean's upper lip, the skin under his nose. The former angel doesn't relent, though, he shifts too, not losing his momentum, and this time, the second kiss lands accordingly to his intentions, chapped lips fervently touching tightly-pressed ones, immovable. He lets the kiss linger as much as he can, straining his neck to chase the pressure. This time Dean makes no noise, his whole body tensing up, visibly closing off. Cas knows every signal is screaming at him to stop, but he cannot, he's burning. He keeps pressing kiss after kiss, dry and desperate, against those stiff, unresponsive lips, until his own mouth starts tingling half in delirious delight, half in painful discomfort.

His hands grip the fabric of Dean's t-shirt at shoulder height, twisting and pulling. Caught in despair, he stands up on the tips of his toes even if they're practically the same height, to give his seventh kiss even more leverage, more force, more everything. When he leans back, Dean's mouth lets out a delicate huff, his nostrils flaring, but nothing more. Cas knows better than to look him in the eyes – if he did, he'd lose at once all his courage -, so he keeps his gaze firmly trained on Dean's tanned neck, letting only his four other senses gather as much as they can of the human he's claiming for himself.

At the eight kiss, he dares to open his mouth against Dean's.

He nips lightly, suckling on the plump bottom lip, moaning at the perfect shock of adrenaline and arousal he gets from it. He takes it whole into his mouth and keeps nibbling on it with a desperation he never quite felt before. Then he moves up, caressing the seam of those taut lips, trying to inexpertly coax them open, until Dean finally relents, inching open his mouth, letting Cas' eager tongue explore as it likes, scraping against the rows of his teeth, curling wetly against Dean's own tongue. He shudders hard for the pleasure of it, and it takes him a few minutes to realize that still Dean is not responding to his touch in any way.

He inches his eyes back open – he doesn't remember closing them – and their lips separate slowly, a thin trail of saliva that breaks when Cas steps further back from him. Dean's eyes are no longer wide, now. They're strangely somber, strangely hard, a sharp, aching contrast with the red of his mouth, the glow of his lips, swollen with all those kisses that he didn't even acknowledge. Cas untangles his hands from Dean's t-shirt with some difficulty, his fingers still not responding very well, as a feeling of dread, worse than he ever felt, settles heavily at the pit of his stomach. He realizes now that despite all the evidence to the contrary, something inside him had desperately wanted to believe that Dean would reciprocate his regards anyway. What a foolish thing to hope for.

As suddenly as it had started, he's not burning anymore.

The look on Dean's face would not have affected him as much, he muses, if he had still been an angel.

When he speaks, Dean's voice is raw, and it was probably his doing, his unwanted kisses, that did it.

'Are you done?' he says, the words cutting like steel on Castiel's skin, the cold gripping him everywhere at once. 'You got it out of your system, now?', he shoulders past him, freeing himself from Cas' lax grip, his face as hard as stone. Cas never saw him quite like this. He stares vacantly, unsteady on his feet, as Dean turns, puts the glass in the sink, and leaves the kitchen without a backward glance, his taste still sitting on the back of Castiel's tongue. There's something pooling out of the corner of his eyes, something that blurs his vision. Cas raises a shaky hand to his cheek and finds it wet, the trail of tears heavy as molten lava. His throat is closing up, hard, making him want to cough, his lungs constricting inside their bone ribcage. His legs fold like jelly beneath him, as he crumbles gracelessly and wordlessly to the floor – a strange feeling of emptiness settling over the kitchen's roof.

He doesn't know for how long he lies there.

When Sam finds him in the morning, curled up against the fridge, red-eyed and still shaken, he crouches down to his level, instantly worried, asking what is wrong, what the hell he's doing on the kitchen floor like that – had he been crying? – and Castiel lets himself be helped to his feet.

'I was rejoicing,' he says simply, blearily shaking his head, 'I shouldn't have.'

Sam, gentle as ever, dries his puffy eyes with a wet washcloth, telling him to keep it pressed on his face for a little while. Then he busies himself with breakfast, and doesn't ask anything more, for which Castiel is grateful. Cas hears him knocking on Dean's door, hears them arguing for a bit, then Sam comes back stomping in the kitchen with a scowl, putting away Dean's mug while muttering under his breath.

Castiel sits at the table and tentatively asks to try the integral cheerios, making Sam's eyes light up in delight, his scowl loosening up. They're very good, Cas tells him, after the first spoonful. Sam looks at him with a smile, and they finish their breakfast in companionable silence.

The slam of the entrance door is the only sign of Dean leaving the bunker.

He takes the Impala for a drive, and doesn't come back the whole afternoon.

Castiel busies himself with his novels, reading cross-legged on his bed.

As much as it is strange, he feels lighter, the cold inside him receding a bit.

He goes out and visits the local library, then he buys a pie on his way back to the bunker, cuts a generous piece of it and brings the plate to Dean's room, leaving it on the nightstand, covered with a napkin to conserve its warmth. He scribbles a note, where he expresses his apologies, assuring Dean nothing like yesterday will ever happen again, and places it in full sight. On his way out, he stops to look at Mary's photograph, not daring to touch it. He wishes he knew how to say to Dean that he inherited the beauty of her soul. He doesn't want to anger him any further, though. Everything he says (everything he does) always seems to be the wrong thing.

He closes the door quietly behind himself, heaving a sigh, trying to blink back the tears.

In that moment he hears Sam's voice from downstairs asking him if he's up for a _Doctor Who_ marathon.

He is, and the tears do not come.

 

Another week passes, uneventful. Cas discovers that one of the few perks of a broken heart is that somehow the dreams seem to stop.

He sleeps through the night, pressing his face into the pillow, sprawled on the mattress, and he wakes up well-rested and bright-eyed. Sometimes he still thinks, _what if,_ but now it is easier to stop that train of thought as soon as it presents. Dean is still set on avoiding him like the plague, and Castiel is set on pretending he hasn't noticed. It's been almost two weeks now since the last time they purposefully made eye contact. Castiel finds himself missing the sound of his voice.

He has a whole world to discover anew, though. Back when he was an angel, he tended to give up, to let things that confused or baffled him just stay that way, with no consequence – now he craves to learn, to understand. When Charlie comes round to see how the Winchesters are doing, he bluntly asks her to teach him how to drive before even properly introducing himself. She stares at him, surprised, but she quickly accepts, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

They don't use the Impala for their lessons, of course.

Cas wouldn't have asked Dean to take his car, not even if they had still been talking – which they aren't.

Charlie seemed a little intimidated by him the very first day, though Cas cannot fathom why – he's hardly a threat anymore. In any case, now she often seeks out his company. On her suggestion, he saved her phone number in his contacts. He likes listening to her, and she smiles brilliantly whenever he tells her so. She tries to coax him to talk too, a little, and somehow he finds himself telling her about Dean. He tells her the story of how they met, of the feeling of absolute solace he got the very first time he ever held the hunter's soul close to his essence. He tells her about Heaven, too, and his brothers and sisters, and how he failed them. And finally, looking down at his hands and not quite meeting her eyes, he quietly confesses his trespass of that night, the reason Dean is no longer talking to him.

Charlie turns out to be a very good listener. When he asks, one day, tentative, if she would mind if he thought of her as a friend, Charlie promptly swats him on the head and gives him a disbelieving look, exclaiming: ' _Dude,_ we covered that ages ago! Of course we're friends!'

He feels oddly proud with himself over this apparently small accomplishment. It is nice to have a new friend.

Charlie tells him of her former girlfriends, sometimes; Cas always listens to her, genuinely interested, trying to figure out the many intricacies of human courtship, an appalling but fascinating subject. By then Sam has noticed, of course, that something's wrong between Cas and his brother, but since Dean lately is doing a fine job of keeping to himself, he usually resolves to seek Cas' company (or Charlie's) instead. When Charlie lends Castiel a part of her impressive DVD collection (and he discovers he's rather partial to _Downton Abbey_ ), he picks up the habit of sitting through the quiet evenings in the bunker's living room, taking place in his favorite armchair (the one closest to the wall with soft, faded fabric; it is big and comfortable and he would like to sit on it while curled up on Dean's lap, his face against the warm skin of Dean's neck, relaxed and content).

He sighs, reaching for the remote, and presses play.

(He's learning. Slowly, but he's learning).

*****

 

When Castiel comes back to the bunker, it is barely past ten.

Charlie had insisted all week for him to go out with her friend Clara (who had later turned out to be a very nice girl in a floral dress and tingling, jade earrings); in the end he had accepted more to appease her than because he actually looked forward to it. They had barely made it to the restaurant when Clara got a message from her roommate and precipitously made her excuses. As far as first dates go, Castiel's one hadn't been a particularly exciting (nor successful) one. Clara had apologized profusely and promised to call him the next day to reschedule. (Cas isn't particularly keen on that idea, either).

He shrugs out of his jacket as he steps into the kitchen with the sole intention of grabbing a glass of water and going straight to bed.

He finds Dean standing at the sink, drying the dishes with a cloth. Cas stops on the threshold, not sure of what to do.

Dean looks at him over his shoulder and tenses slightly, but he turns his head back, not even acknowledging his presence. Castiel feels a brief flare of annoyance spike up in his chest. He opens the fridge door and drinks directly from the bottle, almost daring Dean to comment.

'So, Cas, you had fun tonight?'

Castiel almost drops the bottle. It's the first time Dean has spoken to him in months.

The surprise must be clear on his face, because Dean's smile is so pronounced it's painfully obvious he's faking it.

'No? Well, that's a pity. Didn't you stick your tongue down her throat, too?'

'Dean.'

'It should have worked like a charm, no?'

'Dean, please.'

'It's just the way you roll, isn't it?'

' _Dean_.'

'Oh, it's fine, Cas, you got over me pretty fast, it's fucking fine! You don't have to lie, I get it.'

And just like that, Castiel feels like he's had enough.

'You get _nothing,_ you _assbutt_ ,' Cas snaps, 'I couldn't stop loving you if I tried. And I did try, Dean. You have no idea how much I tried. You made it perfectly clear that you do not share my regards, but I have no intention of standing here and be subjected to your petty, immature accusations- I. I did everything I could, for you- I _tried_ to do what you wanted. To respect your wishes. To give you time, space, anything you needed– how can you say something like that... how can you be so _unfair- it's not my fault if I love you, it's not. I didn't ask for it, I never asked for it_ -' he takes a ragged, hiccuping breath, as the tears spill once again uncontrolled. He's getting sick of the feeling. Why does it always have to hurt this bad, when it comes to Dean? He was doing such a fine job of – of not _hurting_ all the time.

Dean stares back at him, looking stricken, his eyes conflicted. And then he seems to suddenly snap into motion, his hands coming to rest on the curves of Cas' hips, fingers digging hard in the flesh. Castiel barely has the time to flinch before he's being dragged forward, Dean's cheek touching his own, wet with tears, smearing the liquid between them, his breath tickling the skin of his collarbone.

'Please, don't- _don't cry_. I'm an asshole. I know you love me, Cas, I know. I'm sorry. Cas, baby, I'm so sorry...' Castiel bristles at the endearment, instinctively trying to pull away, but Dean's grip only tightens.

'Are you making fun of me, now?' Cas grits through his teeth. Dean's only response is a short, abrupt shake of his head, the tiniest of kisses imprinted on the stubble of his jaw; it makes Castiel gasp nevertheless, because this means – it means... _oh, could it mean...?-_ the light seems to explode behind his closed eyelids, like a sudden rush of his long-lost grace, because maybe, _maybe_ – the mere possibility is enough to rattle him to his core.

'Dean. What-' he whispers, raspy, through the sobs, 'What are you saying?'

Dean sighs, leaning back a little, but his hands do not leave their place on Cas' hips.

'You know I'm not any good with words, Cas, but-'

' _I love you, Dean Winchester_ ,' Cas says then, no trace of hesitation, as Dean blinks dazedly at him, 'I fell in love with your soul the first time I ever held it, broken and anguished, in my arms. I loved you before I even knew what it meant. When I was an angel, I chose your side. Now, as a human, I choose you. You're worth it, and I need you to believe that. You're _everything,_ Dean. I could never want anyone else.'

Cas takes a deep breath, and waits. Dean just gapes back at him.

' _Aehm._ You- you don't really expect me to give a speech like that now, too, do you?' he murmurs, lamely, flushing right after and averting his eyes.

'Actions often speak louder than words, Dean.'

'Uh. You mean I should- right now?'

Castiel nods, unperturbed.

'I could take the lead, if you prefer,' he proposes, trying to reassure him when he notices how flustered Dean seems.

The hunter is very red in the face, and still not looking at him.

'I have lube in my room,' Cas adds, trying to make it better – it doesn't work: Dean only gets redder still and hides his face in his hands with a long-suffering groan. Castiel frowns, confused.

'You could... wear panties?'

'Cas, oh my God. _Shut up!'_

Cas' frown grows more pronounced.

'Have I misinterpreted your meaning, then? You don't desire to pursue a romantic relationship with me?'

Dean raises his eyes to the ceiling, mumbling a few curses, cheeks aflame, but he reaches over and grabs Cas' hand, fingers tightening their hold.

'Look, Cas. I wanna do the relationship thing- okay? I just need a little more time to- to adjust to the idea. I did plenty of thinking these months but please just don't bring up anything like lube or panties- not yet, okay? Let's start from the basics. Baby steps, you know? Let's do this right.' Castiel nods, relieved, squeezing Dean's fingers back.

'Baby steps,' he repeats, grinning.

'Cool. So. You up for a movie?'

'Of course,' Cas replies, and then: 'Can we cuddle?'

Dean pretends to grimace, but he's really trying to hold back a fond, amused smile.

'Yes, you big sap. I guess we can, just this once.'

*****

 

In the morning, Sam finds them both asleep on the couch, heads bent together in what must be a pretty uncomfortable angle, fingers still tightly intertwined. Also, they're both snoring with their mouths open.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket with a grin and quickly snatches a picture.

He sends a copy to Charlie, quickly typing:

_#fucking finally it happened!!_

His phone beeps barely a second later with her answer.

 _#Hooray!!! This calls for a victory dance!_ :)

And then, right after:

 _#We're totally gonna put that on their wedding invitations!_ :D

Sam huffs out a laugh, chancing another glance at the pair, and then replies:

_#they're good for each other. I'm happy for them._

This time he waits a little bit longer for her answer.

 _#Sam, honey, I hate to break this to you, but Cas is a very curious virgin and your brother is running on years of self-denial and pent up frustration. You do realize they're gonna start doing it on every disposable surface very soon, right?_ :D

Sam grimaces in dismay, slipping the phone back in his pocket, and decides it's time for a quick grocery run.

(He loves his brother dearly, but he needs to buy earplugs as soon as possible).

*****

 

A month later, as Dean steps in the kitchen to join them for breakfast, he bends down to press a kiss to the crown of Cas' head, then he fills a mug with coffee and sits down next to him, across from Sam. His little brother smirks at him.

'You look awfully cheerful this morning,' he says.

Dean stops with the mug mid-air, throws him a slightly annoyed look, then he threads his fingers with Cas'.

The former angel is sitting cross-legged on the chair, immersed in the reading of Wuthering Heights, still in his pajamas and with his usual bed head (which only gets worse after a night spent rolling with Dean in the sack). He glances at the both of them, tilting his head to the side with a confused smile, trying to understand why Dean is keeping him from his beloved moors, his reading glasses sliding slightly down the arch of his nose. Dean puts down the mug and reaches over with his free hand, perching them back up with his thumb, and Sam swears to himself that he's going to buy his brother a pair of those star shaped glasses, because that's pretty much his perpetual look these days, when Cas is anywhere in sight.

Dean smiles then, ducks his head a little as if something extremely mushy just crossed his mind.

Which is also entirely possible, these days.

'Well. I guess I'm rejoicing,' he says.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to the lovely Kirra for beta reading this mess! ♥
> 
>  
> 
> The title is from this beautiful poem by Richard Siken.
> 
> “All night I stretched my arms across  
> him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing  
> with all my skin and bone ''Please keep him safe.  
> Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be  
> like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed  
> to pieces.'' Makes a cathedral, him pressing against  
> me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe  
> his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.”


End file.
